Summit House's renovation took longer than expected. And with noted chef Martin Kester at the helm, expectations were high.

Summit neighbors Dylan and Melissa Baker and Tyler and Sara Reeder had long spoken of owning a restaurant together when, in 2015, they acquired a liquor license and began to convert the town’s historic former YMCA into Summit House. After a long delay and lots of anticipatory buzz, it finally opened in April. With its expansive Victorian-style windows, seasonal American cuisine, alluring cocktails and international wine list featuring keg wines, Summit House proved an immediate draw.

The vibe—and to some extent, the dining experience—depends on where you sit. In the vibrant, coffered-ceilinged front cafe room on our first visit, my dinner mates and I wearied of yelling over the din of the bustling bar beside us and the sound system. The tableclothed rear room, flanked by the gorgeous open kitchen, is more subdued. I asked someone if I’d overlooked the opportunity to choose between them. I was told you can make a note on OpenTable or call and make a request. Wish I’d known.

In either room, diners peruse the seasonal menu of executive chef Martin Kester, 37, whom the owners lured from his longtime post as chef de cuisine of Ninety Acres in Peapack-Gladstone.

His outstanding sourdough spelt bread went well with a divine puréed sunchoke soup enriched with pearl-onion jam and a swirl of crème fraiche.
Seafood was stunningly fresh and deftly treated, from spritely marinated mussels and Jersey oysters to a salmon entrée brightened with preserved Meyer lemon and a luscious artichoke purée.

Speaking of mushrooms, Kester uses them liberally. Whether with a tasty but tough Wagyu tri-tip or in a side of roasted maitakes with briny sea beans and earthy sunchoke purée, his fungi elicited groans of delight from us.

Not all groans were positive, however. In a cucumber-and-chickpea salad, the cucumber spears were flaccid and draped with sprigs of wilted arugula. The oven-crisped, cumin-scented chickpeas, while delightful, had no connection to the rest of the dish. Beef tartare was unappetizing—chewy, not cold enough, and overwhelmed by a dehydrated beet, cabbage and shaved rye-bread “reuben granola.” A chicken-liver starter took the form of a jiggly, disconcertingly red custard that gave most of us the shivers.

An intense chocolate pudding with slices of caramelized banana, crisp bits of merengue, toasted hazelnuts and coconut sorbet provided some solace. A dish of bright sorbets won smiles. But a rhubarb tart on both visits suffered from an overcooked, metallic-tasting filling and a leaden, gluten-free crust. An ice cream trio featured a fine chocolate-chocolate chip; too bad ice crystals ruined the spiced maple and salted vanilla scoops. Corn cake (made from heirloom bloody butcher corn) dissolved into paste on top of a smoked-paprika dried-strawberry jam and under a melting scoop of strawberry sorbet.

Kester has to rethink some of his puzzling choices. Service—which managed on one visit to be intrusively attentive yet inefficient, better but not particularly knowledgeable the next—needs to be finessed as well. Summit House may be aiming for the top, but it has work to do before it gets there.